Breaking the Rules
by SoulofChibs
Summary: WINCEST, follows the history of Dean and Sam both realizing their feelings for one another.  Hugely character driven, not much storyline or plot, but if you like these two together, you won't be disappointed!
1. Chapter 1

DEAN

_Canada was boring_, he thought to himself, watching out the dirt streaked windshield of the Impala as a lanky teen pulled his younger brother across the street, tugging the poor damn kid so hard the littler one was tripping over himself in an attempt to keep up. _Brothers_, Dean thought. The word brother whispered into his skull, snaking around his gray matter, making him shake his head unconsciously, trying to dislodge the word from taking root in his mind. It wasn't an effective measure, particularly when Dean sat waiting for his own brother to shake his ass out of the grimy gas station bathroom so they could get back on the road.

_Shake his ass_, he had thought that by accident, and now he shoved down the images that clawed up at him from the inside of his mind, ripping small holes into his already fractured, twisted head. He wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't be thinking that kind of shit anymore, not about Sam. Not after the hundreds of shots of whiskey, and just as many whores he tried to lose himself in daily, just to erase the sick images he constantly had in his equally sick mind about his little brother.

But idle time was Dean's enemy, always had been. Too much time meant too much self destruction, self flagellation, self loathing and generally, too much thinking. God, he hated thinking, he thought as he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, feeling the angry divets poking into his skull, and wishing fervently they could give him the brain cleansing, _bleaching _he so badly needed.

The passenger door wrenching open flustered him upright, and he watched from the corner of his eye as his brother folded himself into the shotgun seat. Always from the corner, never dead on stares, have to be careful, can't let him see, can't let him know, can't let him guess. The rules chanted in his mind incessantly whenever Sam came near him, because Dean was careful, had to be. Sam sent him a sidelong glance, and spoke in his deep voice, "Dude, lets go."

That voice should not sound like angels singing in his head, and should not propel him into action like it does, but Dean is so fucked in the head, he barely registers himself moving. He starts the car, and pulls onto the blacktop. So many blacktops, he thinks dully, so many truckstops, so many motels, so many hunts, so many moments.

That angels are singing again, well it is actually just Sam speaking , but its all the same for Dean, who is so twisted, he barely even looks in the mirror anymore. He jerks his eyes sideways *never dead on, remember* at his brother and see his mouth moving. For a second, he forgets the rules, just for a millisecond and watches Sam's mouth, not hearing a fucking word the kid is saying. Sam's mouth is wide and pink, bottom heavy with a slash of white, perfect, if slightly crooked teeth. One smile is all it ever takes to wreck Dean inside. The urge to press his tongue against those lips hits him so quickly and it's so strong, that Dean feels the need to physically hold himself in place, gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles turn a ghostly shade of white. He jerks his eyes away from Sam like flames are shooting at him. In a way they are, flames of hell, licking at him constantly, whenever he forgets a rule, whenever he slips, the flames grasp at him, trying to gain a fiery permanent hold on him forever. He battles the flames almost every second of every day, and they never ease up, they never shimmer out of sight, or lose their bright focus. The second he slips, they will grab him in their tight grip and pull him down forever. Dean knows this, but he forgets once in a while, like when he slips and looks at Sam's mouth.

Dean didn't always feel this way about Sam, but he can't remember not feeling this way, so it doesn't really matter.

He had always loved his brother. That much he could remember. From the time Sam was placed in his care permanently, Dean being 8 years old, and Sam being 4, Dean has known that he loved the kid. So the love thing, that isn't shocking.

He fixed the meals, made Sam brush his teeth, nagged him about sitting too close to motel room TV's and gave him the ever incessant wedgies and noogies that seem to define every brother to brother relationship.

He remembered lazy summer days of hanging out, plunking quarters in pinball machines, while his sticky with spilled soda little brother watches him with wide open adoring eyes, and Dean tilts the machine just to make the kid clap his hands in delight. He liked the kid too. Liked his company, liked the way Sam looked up to him.

He watched over him as he grew from a geeky kid to a tall, strong, almost man, not quite filled out to his potential, but it was there, on the horizon. Dean helped train him up, get ready for the fight. He pretended not to notice that Sam's mind seemed somewhere else at times, not quite on par with his or his fathers. He pretended he didn't notice Sam staring out the window too much, looks of longing and desperation ghosting across the kid's expression as he watched mile after mile pass by.

When Sam left for Stanford after the blowout with their Dad, Dean knew he felt sad, knew he missed his brother, knew something was fundamentally missing without Sam with him, but he went on, only letting Sam ghost into his thoughts during too drunk moments, adrenaline after the hunt moments, and of course, his feverish dreams.

Dean told himself going to get Sam when Dad went missing was a necessity and he almost believed it. Sure, seeing the man Sam had turned into during the two years apart had jarred him, opened up a weird knot in his chest, cramped his stomach in a strange way Dean didn't have a word for, but they were close. They had been close anyhow. Totally normal for him to feel relief to have the kid back. Maybe it wasn't normal to be so happy about it, like the fire that took Jessica from Sam was a sign that they were destined to be together. When he had THAT thought the first time, he didn't talk to Sam for three days, instead he climbed into a whiskey bottle, and fucked three different nameless, faceless women, just to prove he could, to prove he wasn't really thinking star crossed lover shit about his own brother.

Days fell into weeks, weeks into months, and as a year back together yawned in the distance, Dean felt the change in himself. He caught himself too often to keep letting things slide in his own mind.

It happened in steps for Dean, because that's the way his mind works. Step by step. Hunting, eating, driving, drinking, fucking, Dean does everything in steps. Falling in love was no different.

Step one.

Dean looked at his brother constantly, I mean, they spent every fucking second together, so it was natural to look at the person. He admired his brother in a far off, dim way that never really registered. Like, he saw the kid had a nice, strong frame, broad shouldered, trim waisted, and covered in sinewy muscles. He thought his brother was cute, hell maybe even handsome, with a square jaw and eyes that changed from flinty gray to grassy green with the change of a t-shirt or a mood. And he even admitted that Sam's hair, grown out and careless was pretty cool looking, suited his face. So, he noticed the kid. He just didn't _notice _him.

Until the fucking motel in Butte, Montana.

It was the same motel room they had stayed in so many times, in so many towns, so generic it reeked of low class mediocrity. Two queen beds with a nightstand separating them, covered in garish flowered comforters that itched against his skin, a beaten up TV off to the corner, and a small, rickety, scarred wooden table with two equally rickety chairs hiked up to it.

Dean and Sam had entered the room and done the usual, claim a bed, throw off their boots, and turn on the TV in hopes of a bad movie or a good football game. One of the two six packs they had brought with them got cracked unceremoniously open and a grease-stained pizza box sat on the table, tiny cheese remants stuck sadly to the bottom of the now empty box. Dean and Sam sat on opposite beds, munching pizza, swigging beer, and watching a rerun of Good times. Exceptionally normal for them.

Pizza demolished and two beers in, Sam removes his flannel shirt complaining that the room is hot, and Dean glances at him in annoyance, but doesn't really think too much about it.

Good times rolls into Family Feud, which morphs into some 70's horror movie they are both pretty sure they've seen but can't remember. Sam announces he is going to take a shower and Dean at that point is still of mind to lob a snide comment at him. "Thanks for the update, Howard Cosell," he calls to his brother's retreating back, and then sniggers a little into his open beer can.

So, you can understand why what happened next rocked Dean to his absolute core, why the memory of it simultaneously makes bile rise in the back of his throat and lust ripple through him like dogs racing down a track, first one to the end gets the bone on the stick.

Sam opens the bathroom door and a puff of steam poofs out in relief, like it can't stand to be locked into the confining bathroom for one second longer. The mild scents of beer, pizza, cheap hotel shampoo and mint toothpaste assault Dean's senses strongly enough for him to notice that Sam is entering the room again.

Only, its not Sam that comes out of the bathroom. Not his little geeky brother that he wedgied, teased, cared for, cleaned the scrapes of, made mac and cheese for and cheated at cards with until Sam was 13 and caught on, repaying Dean with a cut lip from a too big hand attached to a long skinny arm.

The person who enters the room is a stranger to Dean, only because Dean is seeing him for the first time. Despite looking at the kid constantly, he had ever seen him until that moment, in that wretched motel room.

Sam body is still gleaming from the shower and his muscles are flexed, hard looking, menacing in a way that Dean doesn't understand. His longish hair is slicked back from his face, still wet. The too small towel is knotted at his impossibly trim waist, covering almost nothing of him. The guy is huge, and he is suddenly everywhere, and as he bends over his bag to get out fresh clothes, Dean feels himself jerk up off the bed forcefully, taking one stumbling step towards this Godlike creature, before his head catches up to his body and he stops, panicked thoughts twisting in his head like wisps of smoke.

Sam's own head jerks up and his eyes find his brothers, concern coloring them as he registers Dean's stricken, panicked expression.

"Dean, you ok?" he asks, straightening up, walking towards Dean, the towel around his waist flaring a bit from his large stride, and Dean is backing up, towards the door, stumbling over himself in his fevered rush to just GET AWAY from this stranger in front of him. Mumbling something about the pizza being rancid, Dean throws himself out door, slamming it behind him and vomits into the nearest bushes. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and his eyes jerk reflexively to the motel room door, and he sees the curtain in the window flick, and knows Sam is watching him, and worried.

Dean breathes in a out for a lot of minutes, willing his heartbeat to slow, willing his head to just fucking let the image of Sam in that towel go, but it won't, so he just sits on damp pavement in the parking lot, until Sam opens the door to the room and calls to him. Dean doesn't know what is happening to him, not yet, but he _knows _down deep that he can't ever let Sam know about any of this, so he gets up, and heads back to the room, eyes downcast. He grabs his beer, washing the puke taste out of his mouth and falls onto his bed facedown, so he doesn't have to see Sam anymore. Because in his head, it's already two Sams. He just doesn't understand why.

Rule one actually writes itself on day two, horrible motel room in Butte, Montana.

Dean woke up to a sour mouth, and a pounding at his skull, both registering in his foggy mind at the same time. He rolls over with a groan, throwing his arm over his eyes to block out the morning sun, and the slow re emergence of the previous night. Details of Sam's almost naked body fly in front of his closed eyes like an old picture show, and Dean gulps convulsively against the dryness in his throat, willing his brain to be normal. Please, just be fucking Winchester normal, at least, he begs his own brain. His brain is suspiciously silent during his pleas.

He hears movement in the other bed, and tries not to picture Sam's bare chest as he hears Sam step out of the bed. Each padded step Sam takes is like a drum crashing inside Dean's head because he knows the kid is moving towards him.

He forces himself to right himself, throwing his arm off his eyes and jerking into a sitting position like he has a coiled spring instead of a spine up his back. It's the only thing he can think of to do that will stop Sam from coming up to him, because Dean just can't fucking take that, not right this second.

"Mornin' Sammy," he calls out as he pushes himself off the bed towards the bathroom, and wills Sam silently to think his voice is normal, not shaky, not weak, not needy.

"You feeling ok, man?" Sam is calling after him and Dean waves a hand behind him, in the universal _yeah yeah_ gesture, and says, "Feel fine, that pizza must have screwed up my stomach last night."

He reaches the bathroom without further conversation, clicks the door shut behind himself, rests his hands on either side of the stained, porcelain sink, taking a mental victory lap that he made it through approximately 10 seconds of normal with Sam.

He looks in the dingy mirror and tries to find himself in his own reflection, but can't spot any of the old Dean there. Instead, he has been replaced with a wild eyed, panting stranger with hair sticking up and perspiration beading on his forehead like he ran a 100 yard dash instead of walking 8 feet into the bathroom. He runs the water as cold as it will get, and splashes his face over and over again. He brushes his teeth three times, but his mouth doesn't feel any cleaner. He turns on the shower and jumps into blistering hot water, and scrubs himself almost raw, trying to cleanse his own essence out of his skin, but when he turns off the shower, he is still all there, and he feels vaguely disappointed.

Stepping out onto to the frayed bathmat, Dean's heart lodges in his throat when he realizes he has nothing to put on. Normally, he wouldn't bother, could care less, throw a towel around his hips and go hunt up some clean clothes out of his duffel, but now, he can't wrap his mind around taking that course of action. He has an internal argument with himself about throwing on his clothes from the night before, wondering if that will cast suspicion on him in Sam's eyes. He decides to throw his jeans on, drape a towel around his neck, and make a run for his bag. He ticks off ten seconds in his own mind, and opens the door.

He leaves the bathroom, eyes intently focused on his duffel bag that is at the end of his bed, feet moving faster than normal in an attempt to just _get there _and feels Sam's gaze on him, and his mind eye picks out the proper expression for the mood he feels in the air, but he doesn't check Sam's face to see if he is right. His brother is silent, but Dean can feel his stare like it's a gun cocked to his fucking skull.

He gets to his bag and roots around for a fresh shirt, humming mindlessly to himself to keep the clattering sounds in his brain at a minimum. He hears Sam weight shift from the bed and catches his legs in his peripheral vision, but keeps his head bowed while he attempts to sidestep Sam and go back into the bathroom.

Sam seems like a great oak planted in front of him and Deans muttered, "Get outta the way," doesn't move him and Dean realizes Sam isn't going to let him past, and so he stops short before he runs headlong into the kid.

Sam's voice is low and Dean is trying to not think it reminds him of a cat purr, as he tries to register what Sam is actually saying to him.

"Dean, seriously man, you are freaking me out, what the hell is wrong with you?" Sam's question is justified, but the panic rears up in Dean's head suddenly, and a hysterical laugh,cry,sob that he catches and holds in his mouth by biting down on his own tongue.

Then it happens. For whatever reason his brain came up with, Dean looks up into Sam's eyes for the first time since the night before. He sees the concern, the worry, the fragment of hurt caused by Sam's confusion, and he gets it. He does. But instead of thinking of those emotions playing on his brother's face, instead of thinking of what he _should _be saying to Sam at this moment to reassure him, Dean is dumbstruck by Sam.

It's the first time he really saw Sam's face, although he has been staring at the kid for years. The deep set soulful eyes, the hard jaw, the hint of color on freshly shaven cheeks and that mouth. That goddamn mouth that Dean's eyes keep slipping down to stare at accidentally, and even though he knows he should be talking, saying anything to make Sam think everything was ok, all Dean can do is hold himself physically back from the primal urge rising in him. That urge wants him to grab Sam and crush his lips into his until they are both battered and bloody.

Instead, Dean calls on every ounce of will power he has ever had, every moment where if he didn't tow the fucking line or carry out an order, he could have been dead, and reels himself in slowly. He takes an extra second, and he knows Sam feels that second tick in the air just like he does, but he needs it.

He lifts his eyes off of that beautiful mouth and fixes his gaze somewhere on Sam's forehead, and manages to say in an almost normal voice. "Nothing, kid, lets get some breakfast."

He scoots past Sam to the bathroom, takes the towel off his shoulders and puts on the fresh t-shirt that it feels like he traversed a mind field for.

Rule number one writes itself inside his skittering skull. Don't ever look at Sam straight on. Ever.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Breaking all the Rules

I wish I owned these characters, but I only have my rotted out brain to blame for this.

Wincest, don't like it, don't read it, won't blame you.

Rule number two came hand in hand with Step 2, linked together like kindergartners who can't walk down the hallway at school without their partner.

If Dean never sees Butte, Montana again, he will die a happy man. Not really, he will die tragic, alone, and desperate, but as long as he isn't in Butte when it happens, he will manage.

They came to Butte on a werewolf hunt and so, despite the soul crushing feelings that seem to be Dean's constant companion since four days previously when he first saw Sam, he is there to do a job.

Dean likes the hunt, always has, likes outsmarting monsters in the dark, likes the feel of his weighted 9 mm with the silver bullets he made himself grasped confidently in his hand. He lives to rid the world of evil, only job he's ever had. He tries to not dwell on his own evilness too much, particularly the new kind that is threading throughout his veins like heroin more and more every moment of the last four days.

Dean isn't the smartest guy in the world, but he does know things, like how fucking wrong he is for feeling the way he was feeling. His inner voice is hoarse from yelling at him, and he isn't sleeping or eating nearly enough to sustain himself, especially on a hunt. The thoughts keep hitting his head like confetti falling from the sky during a parade. All the wrongness, the grossness, the awfulness that he innately feels towards himself, they all pale in comparison to the other, stronger feelings he is experiencing. Like the ones where he can't look Sam dead in the face anymore.

So, four days after Rule One is written, Dean has managed to keep Rule One intact for the most part. It isn't easy not looking at someone you spend 24/7 with, but Dean made a game out of it. He stared at Sam's nose instead of his eyes, his chin instead of his mouth, and whenever he could, he didn't look at Sam at all. It was pathetic, but it was working for him, and he felt good about not really making eye contact with the kid for almost four days. He was starting to breathe a little easier.

If Sam noticed, he never said anything, and he didn't act any differently towards Dean. They ate, they researched, they planned, they slept and Sam didn't seem the wiser for the carefulness that was now Dean. The tightly coiled package of keeping it together, it was working.

The night in the woods when they are finally catching up with the werewolf, Dean is feeling more like himself than he has in days. He is ready, eager even to blow the werewolf off the planet, and back to the rings of hell where it clearly belongs.

So you can't really blame him for not being ready for Step Two, or Rule Two. He is hunting a werewolf, after all.

Dean and Sam are crouched together behind a tree stump, trying to pick out the werewolf's location by listening to its persistent, squealing, ear splintering bays at the moon. In the dark, Dean can almost look at Sam, and he manages to mangle his own face into a grin, anticipating the hunt.

They hear movement in the forest and the baying has stopped, so Dean's pops out of his crouch into a half stand to check where the sound is coming from.

What happens next is no one's fault, really.

The werewolf bays again, and it is closer and much louder than the previous ones and Sam grabs the front of Dean's jacket and hauls him back down behind the tree trunk. Dean loses his footing in the process and lands half on top of Sam with a _whoosh _of breath and a _whump_ of bodies hitting one another.

Dean's head clears a second after he hits Sam, but is gone so quickly again that he doesn't think it really cleared at all. Because he and Sam are face to face, chest to chest, almost groin to groin and Sam's arm is still latched to the front of Dean's jacket, and both of them are panting from the fall.

Dean feels heat radiating up from Sams body, it is searing his flesh because the kid is so fucking hot, in so many ways. Sam's chest is as solid as a brick wall and Dean's stomach is flip flopping like a fish that just got dumped on a bleached, old wooden dock from a casting rod. He is sure his heart rate has sped up to an explosively dangerous number, and hopes that Sam can't feel it radiating out of his own chest, but is acutely worried that Sam will.

Being so close to Sam's face is definitely a fracture of Rule One but Dean can't help himself, since he is still sprawled on top of him. His eyes dart capturing every feature, every line, every scar, memorizing the planes of Sam's face as efficiently as he would seize up any opponent, and he is terrified as he catches Sam's eyes with his own. Sam's are gleaming with an unknown color, enhanced by the full moonlight and Dean has no idea what his own are saying to Sam behind his back, because Sam's expression is a bit strange and confused.

Dean feels his body reacting to the proximity in a way that horrifies him down to his very bone marrow, as his cock swells to half mast inside his jeans. For some reason, that is the thing that shakes him loose of the situation, and he scrambles off Sam like he might die if he doesn't. And who knows, maybe he would die from it, because it was so good, so much better than he would have thought, and now he has a new layer of self hatred to examine for later.

Sam shakes his own head and jumps to his feet almost at the same time Dean does, and even though he isn't supposed to look directly at him, in accordance to Rule One, Dean breaks it to signal which way they should go, and is rewarded by a shaggy haired head bob from Stranger Sam.

Dean knows this isn't his brother Sam anymore, or maybe, he just can't see him as Brother Sam right now. Not if he plans to make it out of this situation in tact to any degree.

So step two has been reached. Dean has realized beyond any shadow of a doubt that his attraction to Sam is as physical as it is ethereal, and that it is almost crippling in its strength.

They catch the werewolf, both of them shooting it in unison, bury the body in the woods, and head back to the car.

Adrenaline is thrumming through Dean like he is still running, and he taps the steering wheel with his fingers in time to his own heart, trying to calm down. He drives them back to the god awful motel. During the drive, Rule Two is formed inside Dean's head. Touching Sam had to be kept at the barest minimum. Touching Sam would clearly lead to breaking Rule One as well as probably cause Dean to blow his own fucking head off.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Breaking the Rules

I do not own any of the characters, and I owe my Wincest sickness to one of the best writers I have ever had the privilege of reading, Candle Beck.

Step 3 happens in Adena, Ohio, two weeks after they brought the werewolf down and Dean came up with Rule Two.

Step Three is probably the most important step for Dean, because it is where everything becomes as clear as a placid pond in the middle of a dense, peaceful forest. The murkiness of his mind is suddenly afforded an insight that he needs and craves, that will doom him in the next instant.

The past two weeks had not been the easiest of Dean's life. Tortured soul never really suited him. That was more Sam's part to play.

Two weeks of constantly watching his every move, every gesture, every word uttered, every glance, and Dean was at once both exhausted in spirit, mind and body, and on the edge, ready to jump off. He was spoiling for a fight, but since the hunt they had chased to good old Adena hadn't worked out, and they couldn't find anywhere else to go just yet, he was stuck with only Sam as company and/or opponent.

Rules One and Two were firmly entrenched in Dean's psyche now, and he recited them over and over again like a calming mediation mantra. No looking Sam dead in the face, and no touching Sam if it could be avoided.

The two rules sound easy enough, but you try not looking at or touching the only human you have regular contact with that you spend every second of your life intertwined with.

So, yeah, Dean is pissy and tired, and frustrated and spoiling for a fight.

They are sitting at a high table in the middle of the room of a cheap, generic small town bar. Its 230 pm on a Tuesday so they are the only customers, with the exception of the old man sitting at the end of the bar nursing a glass of beer and playing cards with the overweight, mustached bartender.

Sam is on his laptop, frowning into the muted light it radiates, his head inside an article that might be something, but he isn't sure yet. Dean knows this because when he asked Sam if he had found anything, that is the response he got.

Dean downs his second shot of whiskey, enjoying the burn of it as it raced down his throat and warms his stomach. He is drinking a lot, and he knows it, but he has to be able to have some relief in this god awful situation he finds himself in the second he wakes up every morning. He is careful to keep it to a certain level, not trusting himself if he gets sloppy drunk. Drunk could mean the breaking or infraction of one of his rules, which he is now considering calling his lifelines.

Because Sam is concentrating so hard on his computer, Dean can look at him while keeping to his self imposed rules. Sam's hair has gotten even longer, falling in light, chestnut waves to his collar and Dean's fingers itch with wanting to brush it back from his forehead, so he actually half sits on one hand to keep it from happening, the other hand firmly clutching his drink at all times.

He notices how high Sam's cheekbones are, and how he bites his bottom lip as he types things into the computer. He is fascinated by Sam's long fingers and watches them endlessly while he works. He notices the gray soft fabric of Sam's tshirt pulled across his chest, articulating the muscular body it currently has the privilege of covering.

Dean has been staring at this kid most of his life, but he is only now seeing the true perfection of him.

Sam glances up at Dean suddenly catches his eye in what probably seems like a normal gaze to Sam, but for Dean it feels like he is crashing up on rocks in the sea. Dean slides his eyes away while he listens to Sam talk about the article he is reading, and hopes the kid won't notice.

Sam's voice rattles around in Dean's head, and he would never tell Sam this, but the sound of his voice is better than any music Dean has ever heard.

Sam lobs something at Dean vocally and Dean completely misses it, too involved in picking out exactly what part of Sam's voice is so amazing, and gets a kick under the table in true Sam fashion, which Dean immediately interprets as '_pay attention to me, dickhead'_.

He manages a snappy comeback, surprising even himself with his ability to mask his own constant nagging, unbelievably weighted pain. He is rewarded with a 1000 watt smile from the face that he suddenly realizes is the only one that ever mattered.

A warmness breaks through Dean's chest so quickly, with such finality that he is sure he is about to break apart from the inside out, because there is no way in hell anyone could ever feel this much at one time and keep living. He feels the warmth spread through him, inching itself through every pore, every facet of his being, and Dean is suddenly blessed with a clearer mind than he has had since the moment he first saw Sam for the first time in the damned hotel in Butte.

Throughout these few weeks of constant minducking torture, the one thing Dean hasn't done is examine the reasons for the way he was feeling. He was too busy wanting to kill himself, drink them away, or pretend for up to one hour at a time that they didn't exist.

The moment he feels the warmth in him explode outward, Step Three is reached. Dean finally understands what is going on. It doesn't make it any better, because it is still the worst kind of torture, most awful thing to be feeling and thinking about constantly. But he finally _gets_ it.

He has always loved his little brother. His life has been pretty much built around this fact, so the love isn't Step Three.

Dean has just realized that he is madly, irrevocably and totally _in_ love with his brother. It was wrong, and it was terrible and it sucked worse than four months in fucking hell, but the innate happiness Dean feels swelling out of him is like a balloon being given too much air, and he grasped the edge of the table with the insane thought that he might fly away if he didn't anchor himself down.

He smiles wildly at Sam, breaking Rule One in the process, and sees a strange light in his brother's eye, before the smile is returned, at a dimmer wattage. Scared suddenly, Dean dials back the smile, hides it behind his beer glass, and his brain immediately comes up with Rule Three.

Rule Three is probably the simplest and hardest all at the same time. Sam can never know how Dean truly feels about him.

If anyone is actually reading this, please review, because I have no idea if it is making sense outside of my own tired, withered mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Breaking the Rules

Sorry if I am changing the title from Breaking the Rules, to Breaking all the rules or vice versa..titles are NOT my strong point. I may not be even doing it, but just in case, thought I would throw it out there.

I don't own any of the characters that I am writing about. I would like to rent them for a few days if I am given the chance, but that would not be written about.

WINCEST WARNING. If you are this far into the story and don't realize it is Wincest, you are kind of an idiot.

So now the rules are firmly established in the hurricane alley that Dean's brain has quickly become and all the steps have been taken.

Four weeks later outside Kennaway, Ontario, in the wonderful country of Canada, and Dean has managed to hold onto to the rules by the grip of his fingernails on the side of a cliff. He is doing his best. For some reason, Sam is not making this easier on him.

The thought reverberates through Dean's head and he shakes it off, feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. Like it's Sam's fault that Dean can't even look at his own brother without lust rising up so fiercely and quickly that he will mount a full scale assault before 3 seconds of eye contact has passed between them.

Dean knows it is his own sickness that causes him to be hyper aware of every move Sam makes. It has nothing to do with Sam purposely making himself alluring to his own brother. Dean is not right in the head, and being in love with his little brother should be bad enough, without him also blaming the fucking kid for it.

So Dean drives towards their destination, and doesn't try to stop himself from noticing Sam's hand and the way it is sitting on his own thigh, flexing and unflexing like he is squeezing an imaginary ball. He is doing it out of the corner of his eye, no chance at eye contact, so no breaking of a rule.

They check into yet another motel and enter the room, routine still fully intact. Dean throws his duffel on the bed nearest the door, and sits on the edge of the bed, looking around the room, grateful for a change to look at anything but Sam.

The room is unfortunately decorated in RCMP paraphernalia and Dean can't help but snort when he looks around. Cops are of course not his favorite thing, even goofy dressed ones perched on top of horses.

He feels, but doesn't witness Sam sit on the bed closest to the bathroom but out of the corner of his eye he realizes Sam is bouncing up and down a little on it, testing it out, and his throat scorches dry like someone just poured hot sand down it.

"Nice bed, Dean," Sam says and continues bouncing. Dean swallows hard and nods reflexively.

Sam stops bouncing just as quickly as he started and Dean hears him huff out a breath.

"Gonna get changed," Sam announces and Dean's face suddenly feels warm. This is part of the problem. For some damn reason, Sam has been undressing in front of him constantly for the last few weeks. Dean tries to remember back through the murky memories of _before_ he saw Sam, and he swears that Sam used to go into the bathroom to change constantly.

Dean tries to keep his eyes fixed on the ridiculous Mountie wall paper, but when he hears the zip of Sam's jeans, his eyes jump over to Sam's side of the room like Dean doesn't control them in his own damn head anymore.

Sam is inching his jeans off his hips slowly and Dean's mind begins to play sexy stripper music before he can stop it. He is trying to force himself to look away but as the jeans drop lower, Dean feels saliva pooling in his too hot mouth and he swallows it down hard.

Sam's jeans are now down at his knees and Dean is still staring, but he isn't sure anymore if it counts because he isn't looking at Sam's face. The bulge in Sam's shorts is tantalizing in a way that Dean's brain can't even interpret, he vaguely senses that his imagination is trying to see under those rather tight fitting shorts, but can't manage to do so.

Suddenly, Sam stops and mutters, "No, those are still clean," and pulls his jeans back up slowly and Dean watches the promise land that is the bulge in Sam's boxers disappear from his line of sight. He lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding and looks away again. Finally. He waits for the fuzziness that immediately covered his brain when he heard that tell tale ziiippppp to dissipate, but it seems to be taking longer to go away than usual.

The corner of his eye catches Sam unbuttoning his plaid shirt and throwing it on his bed, and Dean's inner monologue starts in with '_oh what fresh hell is this'_ and when Sam lifts the edges of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, Dean can't stop staring even if someone poured poison into his eyes at that exact moment.

Sam has this habit, and he has probably done it most of his life, but now that Dean is obsessive about watching him as much as possible it has become noticeable.

Whenever Sam takes his shirt off, before putting a new one on, he slaps his biceps lightly with the opposite hand, like he is reassuring himself they are still bulging just the way he likes.

Dean lives to watch Sam slap those biceps. So he watches out of the corner of his eye and tries to ignore the thickness against the zipper of his own jeans while he waits for those slaps.

Sam absentmindedly strokes down his own chest for a second and Dean literally thinks someone must have set his own bed on fire, because he hears the "whoosh" in his ears and its like being caught right inside a blue flame. Dean is holding his breath again and biting his lip and when Sam finally slaps his biceps before picking up his fresh t-shirt to pull over his head, Dean can breathe again.

Sam looks over and Dean darts his eyes back to the wallpaper quickly, almost, but not completely sure that Sam couldn't have seen him staring.

"Dean, c'mon get changed so we can go eat, I'm starving."

Robotically Dean nods, and says, "Yeah Sam," and then reaches down to unzip his own bag. He pulls out a fresh shirt and his shave bag and stands up, glad the pressure in his crotch has abated enough that he doesn't have to hold his hands in front of the massive hard on watching Sam change shirts had given him.

As he walks into the bathroom, he feels Sam's eyes on him and they scorch a trail down the back of his neck, but Dean doesn't turn back. He just can't.

LATER

They are sitting in another crappy bar, after another so-so dinner, nursing beers and cracking jokes at each other. Dean is trying desperately to keep the rules in place, but again, he feels almost resentful of Sam. Dean is not breaking his rules, but its like Sam is constantly _trying_ to make Dean break them.

Sam is kicking him under the table, although he always apologizes, and one of his legs has leaned against Dean's three times. Each time Dean sends him the warning , "Dude," Sam apologizes and moves it again, but within minutes its back. He is claiming to Dean that there isn't enough leg room and he needs more than Dean anyhow.

He has reached across the table exactly six times since they sat down two hours ago to hit Dean's wrist while telling him something and once he even grabbed Dean's hand for emphasis during a particularly funny, if not often told tale. Dean's hand is still tingling from the contact, and he keeps looking down at it, wondering if his skin is going to change because Sam touched him there.

The worst is the eye contact, because it is never ending, and Dean's heart has lodged up in his own throat so many fucking times as he looks at Sam, that he figures that is its new permanent place in his body. For some reason Sam is not accepting Dean's sly tricks when it comes to not looking at him, so everything he does is causing Dean's gaze to be on him. Whether it was talking so low that Dean had to look to try to make out the words from Sam's mouth to Sam telling a story that had him pointing eyes to eyes with Dean, he is literally stripping Dean of his rules quicker than a hungry redneck can strip a mule deer.

Dean drinks too much and for a weird change so does Sam and they stumble out of the smoky bar a few hours later. The bar is a short walk back to the hotel and the Canadian air is crisp but not too cold and Dean figures they will be back to the room in minutes.

Sam has been walking since he was one year old. Dean knows this because he was there. And the guy has the longest legs Dean has ever seen, so why Sam can't manage to stay balanced on this impossibly short walk back to the room is a complete mystery to Dean.

He keeps bumping into Dean and letting our snorted chuckles each time he does it. Dean doesn't say anything, or react or even look at Sam, but his whole core is shaking and zinging and firing like someone turned up the juice inside him.

Dean is proud of himself, he is kind of keeping it together, and then he feels Sam's arm drop around his shoulders, his hand grasping at the leather of Dean's jacket.

Dean freezes inside his own skin in a flash moment and he sorts it out in his head that before he saw Sam for the first time, this kind of thing was Ok and pushing Sam off him now would look worse than enduring the contact. So, he walks along steadfastly not looking at Sam, and eventually Sam removes his arm with a sigh, but he still bumps into Dean twice more before they reach the room.

They are finally safely back to the room and the TV is on low and the lights are off and they are lying on their separate beds and Dean is finally thinking that maybe he can get some sleep and escape his hell on earth for a few hours, unless another fucking dream gets to him first, when he hears Sam sigh loudly and say,

"Fuck you seriously cannot take a hint, Dean."

Thoughts are appreciated, if you got the time


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five Breaking the Rules

I do not own the characters, just the situations I mercilessly put them in.

WINCEST WARNING! Do I really need to keep putting this on every chapter, or have you figured it out?

"Fuck you seriously cannot take a hint Dean."

Sam had uttered that sentence at least three minutes prior and Dean was still trying to figure out what the fuck he meant by that. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to think, didn't want to move. He just wanted to lie on his bed and sink into a dreamless sleep and get some peace for one fucking minute.

And he wanted to know what Sam meant by that.

Dean heard Sam moving around the room like background noise to the chaos in his own mind and Dean closed his eyes against the heavy onslaught of emotions he felt rising to the surface of his skin, prickling their way out of his body.

So the fact that Sam was suddenly looming over him didn't register for the first few moments.

Dean felt a slight weight change on his bed and cocked one eye open, expecting to see nothing, but especially not expecting to see Sam's head a few inches from his own. Dean went to move, his first reaction was flight, but one of Sam's hands came down on his shoulder, rendering him frozen. Not because the hand was brutal, in fact it was holding Dean there softly, tentatively, with the long fingers that dazzled Dean's mind rubbing across his collarbone. Sam's fingers felt like calloused velvet as they moved over the thin T-shirt material and Dean's mind is blank, because all he can do is feel and maybe breathe, although he hasn't tested that theory yet.

Sam dips his face perilously close to Deans own and Dean notices a small glint in Sam's eye and a small smile tugging at that goddamn mouth.

Dean knows he is asleep, passed out from too many drinks and he knows he will wake up tomorrow with a dull headache and a raging hard on, but for once it doesn't matter because instead of dreaming of sickness, desperation and unfulfilled want, Dean is finally having a _good _dream about Sam.

And it's a really vivid one. It feels so real, Dean can hear his breathing speeding up because of Sam's close proximity and can smell the freshness of the motel soap Sam used in the shower that day.

Which doesn't seem quite right to Dean in his dream state, because his dreams usually weren't so detailed, but the thought is driven from his mind in a nanosecond because Sam's head his dipping towards his and before Dean can exhale the breath he has been holding, Sam's lips are on his own.

Dean feels himself explode, but its almost like he is outside looking in, because the feelings are so strong and so surreal that they can't possibly belong to him.

Without warning from his own body or mind, his hand is twisted in Sam's hair and he is moaning against Sam's sweet mouth and his body is arching up towards him. Sam's response baffles him, because Sam is mewling in the back of his own throat and straining closer to Dean, hefting one of his legs in between Dean's.

Sam's tongue bangs against Dean's lips and sweeps into his mouth, finding Dean's tongue with his own. They kiss each other in a way neither has kissed anyone before, an exchange of souls with every motion their mouths make.

Sams hot, huge hands scramble under Dean's t-shirt and his touch is so desperate, and so needy that Dean thinks he may go insane just from that alone.

Dean comes into focus just long enough to realize if this is his dream, then every fantasy he hid from himself in the daylight about Sam was going to come true in this one fucking dream. He would see to it himself.

So he leans up towards Sam and roughly pulls at Sam's shirt, almost ripping it off his broad shoulders and his hands convulsely twitch while he runs them down Sam's quivering abdomen. He pulls Sam downwards until they are flush against one another and Dean reaches around to kneads Sam's ass through his jeans.

Sam squirms against Dean, creating a friction between them that is making the air thick and salty, like they are underwater. All the while their mouths never leave one another, constantly fused together in what seems like an endless kiss.

Sams hands are scrambling for Dean's belt and Dean is already working Sam's jeans down his long legs and they are a mess of tangled limbs, their need making them clumsy and inefficient in their lovemaking, but neither pauses in their individuals pursuits.

Soon they are skin on skin and Dean is so hard, so tense that he feels like he may shatter into a million pieces at any given second and Sam still hasn't even touched his cock yet.

As the thought entered his head, Sam's hand encircled Dean's engorged penis and Dean's hips lift off the bed spasmodically, keening towards Sam in a way that would look so desperate to anyone who wasn't feeling the exact same way at that moment.

But Sam was.

Dean's own hand found Sam and he stroked up and down the long shaft of Sam's cock, feeling it jerk in his hand, making his own impossibly harder every time it happened.

It doesn't last as long as it should, their desperation stealing any control either one would usually display in bed and soon Dean is shouting Sam's name as he comes into his brother's hand and Sam buries his face in Dean's shoulder during his own release, biting hard into the flesh he was so gently stroking minutes earlier, before this feverish dream really took flight.

Sam is on top of Dean still and Dean feels Sam's heart beat in his own chest, and it feels like it should have always been there. Sam's hands are still stroking Dean everywhere, touching his face, his chest, his arms, moving ceaselessly, learning the planes of Dean's form, while his mouth plants soft wet kisses on Dean's cheek, ear and neck.

Deans hands are wrapped around Sam protectively and as he feels his heart rate hit a normal speed, the full realization of what just happened between them sinks into the fog of Dean's brain.

He pulls Sam's face up so he can finally, FINALLY look into the eyes he has tried to live without for what feels like years and Sam smiles softly at him.

"I swear Dean, if I had left it up to you to make a move, we might have missed this completely." With that short statement, Sam's lips brush against Dean's sinfully, and Dean is rendered useless once again, only able to respond to the delicate kisses, trying to hold back his own desperation and need for just a moment, so he can just enjoy the feeling that this miracle has brought him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Breaking the Rules

I do not own the amazing creatures that are Sam and Dean Winchester. I am just borrowing them for my own perverse pleasure.

WINCEST Warning: If you read the last chapter and still needed this warning, I feel a little sorry for you.

SAM

The gray light is scraping through a slit in the heavy curtains on the motel room window, casting a spooky light on Dean's face. Sam knows this because he feels like he hasn't looked anywhere but Dean's face for the last few hours. Well, maybe he looked at his body too.

They are tangled together in the sheets and Dean has fallen asleep with his head tucked into Sam's shoulder, his breathing deep and even, and Sam knows his brother is resting peacefully for the first time in forever.

His mind replays the deeds they committed in the night, and Sam feels himself starting to harden at the slightest memory. Which is ridiculous because he has already cum three times, and he and Dean hadn't even gotten to real sex yet. He should be exhausted, but instead, he wars with himself in his own mind whether he should wake up Dean so he can feel his mouth and his hands again. But Dean needs to sleep and Sam isn't that selfish, so he wills his desire away and just stares at Dean some more.

When Dean started acting strange in Butte, Montana, Sam had been so scared, so wrecked with confusion, he hadn't immediately understood what was going on with his brother. Suddenly, Dean wasn't looking him in the eye anymore, was doing anything to avoid it, and Sam's mind ran over scenarios that might have taken place to cause this reaction in Dean.

Dean is always the strong one, the sure one, the charming one, and seeing him rattled out of his element affects Sam more than he will ever admit. Dean is Sam's lifeline, always has been, his one calm in the storm that often takes place in Sam's mind, and thinking that Dean may not provide that safety any longer had caused fear to trickle into Sam's veins like ice water.

He keeps a proper distance from Dean and watches for four days while his brother internally struggles with whatever is bothering him. Sam wants to help, wants to fix it, wants to see Dean's easy smile and relaxed expression again, but he doesn't know how. So, he keeps a watchful stance and prays Dean will snap out of it.

In the woods outside of Butte, Montana is the first slight hint Sam gets regarding what Dean is feeling. Dean is an accomplished liar, a con man by nature, and so his ability to hide his true self away from even Sam is impressive. Dean is excited for the hunt and even his scent wafting from his skin in the air is spicier, like adrenaline had a different taste than other chemical reactions in his body.

When Dean pops into a standing position, and they hear the werewolf closer than they could have thought, Sam's first reaction is to pull Dean away from the danger. Grabbing a fistful of shirt and jacket, Sam heaves Dean downward, towards himself, away from the sound of danger.

Dean trips and lands half sprawled over Sam and a moment clicks by in a hushed silence, punctured only by the sound of both of them breathing, and Sam sees something in Dean's eyes, because for just a second, Dean isn't hiding, lying or trying to con Sam into thinking everything is ok.

Most people wouldn't have caught the look, it was gone so quickly, but Sam knew Dean's face better than he knows his own. And he was struck almost dumb by what he thinks he has seen in his brothers shimmery, green eyes.

Before Sam's brain can formulate any reaction, Dean is up again and Sam feels himself spring up beside him, like he is attached to Dean by an invisible elastic band.

Dean gestures a plan to Sam and Sam can only nod his head that he understands and pray inwardly he does.

A few weeks down the road and they are in Adena, Ohio and Sam is suspicious and unsure.

He watches Dean a lot now, because Dean never really looks at him, so he can stare at Dean as much as he wants. His mind registers Dean's lack of appetite and that he isn't sleeping. He even registers that Dean has almost ceased any physical contact with him, not even as much as a slap on the shoulder for almost two weeks.

A niggling worry worms its way into Sam's brain, but he can't quite grasp it, so he tries to ignore it as much as possible.

The bar they are sitting in is like every other bar they have ever sat in, and so Sam can't tell you what it looked like, or smelled like exactly because they all blur together, but he will never forget that bar, or that table for the rest of his days.

He is clicking away on his computer while another part of his mind worries about Dean taking two whiskey shots within minutes of each other in the middle of the afternoon. Dean is drinking more and more, and Sam doesn't know how to approach the subject without setting Dean off or scaring him away. Sam's mind stutters at the idea that he could scare Dean in any way, and while he largely dismisses the idea the moment it comes to him, it is another thought that takes the shape of a worm sliding around his psyche.

Sam loves research, loves to find information on their hunts on his computer, loves to be the "brains" of the operation. He knows that he isn't up to Dean's level as a hunter, but he likes to think that his research and careful planning makes their hunts easier, less dangerous for his brother.

So, he works at his computer, reading an article that might lead to a case, if in fact the woman isn't lying about the ghost she is claiming is trying to kill her and he hears himself chattering at Dean. Always fucking talking, like he has to fill up the room with words to cover up the awkward silences he is constantly aware of. Dean isn't replying to him and Sam kicks at him because, just for a second Dean is his brother, not listening to him and its pissing him off. Dean had snapped out of whatever fog had currently settled in his head, and parried back with an impressive comeback and Sam had laughed, feeling his face stretch into his first real smile in weeks.

That was when Dean had smiled back at him. Dean always had the best smile, perfectly even white teeth, sensuous full lips that could sneer sexier or pull into an impressive pout better than anyone else in the world. Sam had seen it a million times in his life, for all different reasons. He has been a constant witness to that smile, so when Dean smiles at him in that dingy bar in Adena, Sam knows its one he hasn't seen before.

Dean's smile was unabashed, it was huge, it was dazzling, and his forest green eyes were shining so brightly that Sam had to almost squint away from them. Because in that smile, Sam sees what Dean was trying so damn hard to hide from him. It had rocked into his core and taken up residence as a huge boulder sitting on Sam's chest that he was trying to breathe around, which isn't as easy as it sounds.

Dean catches himself fast, and Sam sees him mentally shake himself, and they both pretend that everything is normal and fine, because that is what Winchesters do when they have no plan of action.

Sam sees Dean's self horror work across his face as more and more things click into place in Dean's mind. He wants to help Dean of course, but Sam is having some trouble with coherent thoughts himself right at that moment.

Sam has just realized that Dean is in love with him. Dean may have a million different smiles in his arsenal, but that particular one had held every emotion he was feeling. And Sam had recognized it so easily because it mirrored his own feeings perfectly.

You see, Sam has known for a long time that he was in love with Dean. He just never expected to see the feelings returned in any other fashion besides brotherly concern.

Now the question was, what the hell was Sam supposed to do about it?

Please review! thanks


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Breaking the Rules

I do not own the characters or anything to do with SPN

WINCEST WARNING. I am still putting this on, but I hope to god no one reading this story needs this warning.

SAM

It should be really difficult to have a brother like Dean Winchester, because Dean is perfect in almost every way. Handsome, manly, arrogant, smart, and tough, most men in the world can only fantasize about being in Dean Winchester's league. It was never difficult for Sam, because he was always so damn proud that he was related to Dean, he forgot to be jealous.

Dean is Sam's only constant as a child, and Sam is precocious enough to understand that is why he hero worships his older brother. Dean has done everything for Sam, so it's natural that Sam loves him so much. He spends most of his childhood tripping over his own feet trying to keep up with Dean.

They fight, they bitch, they joke, they drive, they horse around, they train and Sam is almost content with his life as long as Dean is there. His brother fills his life with a normalcy Sam is dimly aware that he won't get anywhere else.

He knows he isn't an instinctual hunter like his father and his brother. He knows his intellect keeps him inside his own head more than what was useful in a hunt. He knows he will eventually grow into his big hands and feet, but right now, he is sixteen and two weeks can seem like forever when you are sixteen.

Sam spends enough time in his head dissecting himself that when he first realizes at sixteen that how he feels about his brother isn't exactly normal, it doesn't hit him like a ton of bricks like it did Dean. When the idea forms in Sam's head, it is almost as if it was always there in the distance and is just slowly pulling more and more into focus.

It happens almost naturally. He finds himself staring at Dean's golden chest when he walks around their shabby motel rooms without a shirt or a care in the world. He watches Dean's face endlessly, memorizing every emotion as it flits across it. He dreams awkward, steamy, sex filled fantasy dreams where Dean comes to him and his mouth is on Sam. Sam wakes up beside his brother, unwilling to let the dream pass for a few seconds, reliving it in his newly wakened mind for a short time, before allowing it to disintegrate into the murky morning light.

Sam showers every morning now, no longer needing to be cajoled into the bathroom by a nagging brother. He doesn't care that much about being clean as he does the few precious minutes under the needling spray, where he can move his hand over his own cock, pretending its Dean's hand, or his mouth. Sam jerks off to Dean's image every fucking morning. He requires almost constant relief from the never ending hardness that is his dick, because his whole life is spent in mind numbing proximity to his fantasy.

Sam is the smart one, anyone would tell you that, so maybe the idea of him and Dean together should disgust him, repel him, make him nauseous, but none of those things happen.

Dean is Sam's whole world, even his own father takes a distant second in Sam's mind and heart. He knows Dean won't ever return his feelings, and in Sam's mind that is ok, as long as they are together, he can handle it.

When the acceptance letter and scholarship to Stanford show up, Sam has his first real moments of panic, because Stanford is what he really wants. Except for his unnatural want for his brother.

Sam is now eighteen and he has been in love with Dean for two years. Two years of heated glances thrown in Dean's direction, frustrating half sex with any girl that would give him the time of day because he doesn't want to be in love with his own brother. The encounters leave him unsatisfied and unfulfilled and only conjuring Dean's face can bring Sam any sort of peace as he works his own cock once again, in the shower alone.

So, Stanford terrifies him, because he will be away from Dean, but Sam is now of the mind that maybe he needs to be away from Dean. His feelings for Dean are overwhelming and unnatural, and in Sam's fevered eighteen year old mind, he figures distance might be the only cure.

So he leaves and he tries not to think that the expression on Dean's face as Sam pulls away on the bus is heartbreak, but that is the only word that comes to mind as Sam presses his head against the bus window, watching his brother's figure get smaller and smaller in the distance.

Stanford is a new life, and Sam tries his best, working part time at a garage, taking a full load of classes, dating pretty girls that are suddenly paying more attention to him more than ever before. He feels relatively happy, but his own brain can't really fool him for too long. He knows his happiness is a pale shade compared to the vivid color of the happy he feels whenever he is near Dean.

He meets Jess and she is sweet and soft, and Sam knows he can love her as much as he is able, and it will be enough for her. And her mouth is full, just like Dean's. Their relationship takes hold and Sam tells himself late at night while he lies next to her in the dark that he doesn't always picture Dean during sex, that it is happening less and less. Sam hates lying to himself.

When Dean shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, Sam tries to hate him for attempting to drag him back into their twisted existence, but his insides are too busy jumping for joy because Dean is here, and he wants him. It doesn't matter to Sam why Dean wants him, only that Dean cared enough to chase him down. He jumps into the Impala with little more than a fleeting thought about Jess.

Returning to Stanford after the hunt, Sam had felt like his heart was about to break into a million pieces. He has realized in the few short days with Dean again that he is unconditionally and permanently in love with Dean and no amount of girls, or time, or distance is ever really going to change that. The depression settling over him feels like a blanket being pulled over his head.

Then there is the fire.

Sam is a zombie for a month or so after the fire, and Dean wrongly interprets it as grief over Jessica's death. Dean is partially right, Sam is grieving Jessica, but more of his time is spent feeling so much guilt that his skin crawls with it constantly.

Because part of Sam is relieved that Jess is gone, and nothing is holding him back from being with Dean once again.

The next years spent on the road are the happiest Sam can remember in his life. He feels like Dean's equal and his lovesickness only grows deeper, but it is such a part of his every day existence, that he doesn't think it's a problem. He will always be in love with Dean and there will never be anything to do about it. So, he just enjoys the life he has. Driving and hunting, eating and sleeping, all within touching distance of the person that he loves the most. He makes himself think its enough.

And it almost is.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight Breaking the Rules

I don't know own the characters.

This is Wincest

PLEASE REVIEW IF YOU ARE READING.

So Sam lays staring at Dean in the pallid light of dawn and knows that whatever happens now, he has gotten more from Dean than he had ever hoped to. He feels like he could stay in this one moment forever, because in this moment, he can run the pad of his own thumb across Dean's lips, cradle Dean's face with his fingers, and breathe in Dean's scent like a drowning man gasping for air.

He doesn't know what will happen when Dean wakes, and the realization of their actions takes hold in Dean's brain.

For Sam it is so simple. He is in love, and the object of his love is finally returning his pent up feelings. His happiness in the moment is only marred by his fear that in the light of day, Dean will turn from him in disgust and Sam will fracture into a million pieces of different colored heartbreak.

Dean stirs at Sam's shoulder, his hot breath trailing a line down Sam's neck and Sam stirs a bit himself, unable to stop from squirming slightly just at the feel of Dean's breath on his skin.

He feels Dean's eyes open before he even sees them and their gazes crash together for one brief, pregnant moment, and Sam is aware that he is holding his breath, waiting for Dean to freak out, hit him, or move away. Sam is ready for those things, his heart is perched on the ledge, waiting for its chance to fall into the abyss of misery that is waiting for it.

Incredibly, none of those things happen. Instead, Dean's fingers lift to Sam's face, tracing the lines of his jaw and Sam feels his skin warming to his brother's touch. He adjusts his position so his dick is pressed against Dean's side, already rising with just the smallest of touches from Dean. Dean's mouth quirks into a small smile and he pulls Sam to him, going for a small passionate kiss, but it erupts instantly into greed and desire, and in a moment they are upon each other once again.

Dean's rough hands are the only prayer Sam can ever remember as they move over his body with a possessive quality and he arches himself into Dean, begging with his body for what his mouth cannot seem to articulate.

Deans hands are everywhere and Sam feels so hot, so hard that he might actually die and go happy, because Dean is kissing him and Dean is touching him, and it is so much better, so much sexier, so much more than Sam's imagination had ever created.

Sam can't even understand himself what he wants, but Dean, fucking Dean knows him so well, that he instinctively rolls on top of Sam, pushing him face first into the pillows of the bed. Sam's heart stops because he can't process what is about to happen. He wants it so badly he can't even name it.

Then Dean is up and kneeling behind him and his hand is around Sam's cock, getting slippery with the precum from Sam's massive hard on, while he strokes his own dick absently. When enough moisture has accumulated on his fingers, Dean takes a finger, and places it in Sam and Sam bucks wildly, held unsteadily in place by the feel of Dean's teeth at the back of his neck, whispering Sam's name in feverish tones, working that finger in and out of Sam.

Another finger slips inside Sam and he sobs, Dean's name carried off his lips in an expression of need so acute, and so visceral that Sam isn't going to make it through, he is sure of it. There is not enough room inside of him to handle the amount of desire and need he is feeling.

He feels the head of Dean's cock at his entrance and he moans, backing himself into it unthinkingly, knowing what he wants, what he needs, and although Dean is trying to be slow, trying to be careful, Sam just can't fucking wait another second and he so he forces Deans cock into his ass with his own hips.

A moment of bright pain sears him for a moment, and he freezes, and it is suddenly replaced by a trembling feeling that takes hold and he moves his hips slowly, experimenting with the weight of Dean's cock inside him.

Something breaks in Dean, whatever control he had somehow managed to keep for this amount of time disappears in an instant and he is pushing into Sam like a madman, one hand holding Sam's hips at the right angle, the other snaking around to grab Sam's cock, jerking it in his hand to the rhythm his hips are pounding out.

Sam and Dean are both screaming in pleasure, panting each others names into the morning light and Sam feels himself reaching the edge of climax and pushes back on Dean, forcing him to join Sam as they both jump off the edge together.

Always together, Sam thinks numbly as Dean collapses on Sam's back, his lips kissing across Sam's scapula, his hand still around Sam's slowly softening penis.

He feels Dean's heart slowing and it's the most peaceful Sam has ever felt. He closes his eyes feeling happier than he knows he has ever had a right to.

He isn't prepared for what Dean says next. It is whispered into his ear, like a lover's promise, but the words carry dread into Sam's very being.

"We need to talk, Sammy."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9, Breaking the Rules

Don't own the characters, only the ideas.

WINCEST-DUH!

DEAN

He had felt Sam whole being stiffen when he had whispered they needed to talk, and Dean wanted to haul Sam up into an embrace and sooth him, like he did when Sam was small and had gotten scared during a thunderstorm.

Dean's mind is a pile of different thoughts, so cluttered they keep bumping into each other inside his brain. He has just fucked his little brother, and it was the best sex Dean has ever had in his whole life.

He feels disgust rear up in his mind and he pushes it down, because he wants to feel happy for a few fucking minutes, and he doesn't think that is too much to ask for. He knows he is has bought himself a one-way ticket to hell with his actions. He just doesn't want to care about it right this second.

He adjusted his position so he is lying face to face with Sam and he watches emotions flash across his brother's face over and over again. Fear, love, hurt, happiness, terror, desire, they are interchangeable, a constant collage of Sam's expressions.

Dean unthinkingly strokes Sam's cheek with his own hand, reveling in the warmth and stubbly softness of the other man.

Sam's voice comes out in a tentative warble, and it sounds almost alien to Dean. "What is it, Dean?"

It's a loaded question and Dean stumbles with how to answer it. So many things he wants-no _needs_ to know, and he is suddenly shy and unsure of himself.

"How long-" comes out of Dean's lips first, but he doesn't even know how to finish the question, because he isn't positive he knows what he is asking. Or maybe he just doesn't want to know the answer. He can't really be sure. Dean tries to lie to himself a lot. It works sometimes.

He watches the miracle that is Sam's smile slowly spread out of his face and feels Sam's long fingers tracing into his own bicep. "I was sixteen when I realized it," Sam answers Dean, knowing what Dean wanted before even Dean himself knew.

Dean's brain registers shock, because Sam has just told him that he has felt this way for years. Sam had been dealing with this alone for all those years. His heart is filled with sorrow for the man he loves, the man he didn't' realize he loved so fucking much until a short smattering of weeks ago.

Dean nods into the pillow, his eyes never leaving Sam's, and he watches his brother through his new eyes, seeing the beauty, the kindness, and the unconditional love that just emanates off of Sam and Dean knows he is stupid for not having seen it sooner.

"Jess?" Dean asks Sam and ignores the spike of jealousy he feels towards the poor dead girl who had at least held a small piece of Sam's heart.

Sam sighs, and pain flashes across Sam's face as he leans forward to kiss Dean on the lips. "A poor substitute, I'm afraid," Sam whispers into Dean's mouth, and Dean feels the warmth that he now recognizes as pure love spread through every fiber of his being.

They lie staring at each other for several long minutes, the light in the room becoming more pronounced and Dean breaks the silence.

"Why now?" He asks Sam.

Sam's expression is confused, he doesn't really know what Dean is asking him for a minute. Suddenly a wave of understanding flows over his face and he gets that small, sexy, pure Sam smile that Dean already knows he lives and dies for.

"Butte," Sam says simply. "I wasn't sure, even then, but I thought I saw—" and he trails off, his eyes locked hopefully and helplessly to Deans.

Dean nods into the pillow again, answering Sam's own honesty with his own. "Yep, it was Butte for me," he admits.

Sam smile goes up another notch and Dean feels his own heart expand at the very sight of it. Sam waits a moment and speaks again.

"It was Adena when I knew for sure," he confides to Dean and Dean remembers. He knows now that he hid nothing from Sam, his very soul was an open book that only Sam could decipher.

Dean thinks over the past few weeks since Adena and catches Sam's eyes. "The past few weeks, even last night, you knew, and you were, what? Testing me?"

Sam chuckles and it vibrates through Dean but he won't be deterred, because he wants a fucking answer.

Sam's hand scrapes through Dean's hair and Dean shivers a bit but holds Sam's gaze pinned with his own. "Oh Dean," Sam says.

"Sam?" He bites it out like an angry question, but he isn't really angry, more curious that anything else.

"Yes Dean," Sam says, "The past few weeks, when I saw…when I _knew _how you were feeling, I went to great lengths to seduce you. And it wasn't easy, I might add, with you not looking at me, or touching me. I had to get very creative." Sam's eyes are shining into Dean's and Dean can't even work up an annoyed feeling at Sam, because he is just too happy in the moment.

They lay entwined for several more minutes, a comfortable silence between them, until Sam breaks into Dean's thoughts once again.

"Has it ever been like this…for you?" and Dean can't miss the hopeful edge to Sam's voice. He knows what Sam is asking, and he wants to give him what he needs.

He sighs and stares at Sam's mouth for a few seconds before answering, "Sam, nothing has come even close to this," gesturing his own hand between them.

Sam smiles again, and Dean dies a little more just watching him. Sam stares into Dean's eyes in a way that makes Dean happy and uncomfortable at the same moment.

"Me either," Sam says and leaves a lot of unspoken words in their wake.

Deans mind starts to rattle a bit and he finds himself saying things that he doesn't really want to say.

"Its not normal, this thing, Sammy," and he hates himself for saying it, but he needs Sam to know.

Sam shrugs and says, "Dean, I know. We aren't normal, we never have been. But I have loved you my whole life, been in love with you for more years than I even want to think about it, and I finally, FINALLY have you, in my arms, and in my heart and no matter what anyone thinks, says, or feels, I know its right."

Dean starts to look away but Sam grabs his face with his large hand, wrenching him Dean's jaw so he is forced to look in Sam's eyes. "Its not right for them, Dean. Those who don't know what it feels like to hunt or fight a monster. Those who weren't born to hunters, raised for battle. So, for them, yeah, it might be wrong. But for me, in my whole miserable fucking life, I have had ONE thing. You." 

Dean wants to say something back, but Sam is rambling, clutching Deans jaw, a manic sheen in Sam's eyes as he keeps talking.

"You Dean. My brother, my savior, my true love. The man who went to hell for me because he couldn't stand the world without me. So, its fucked up and I see that part of it, but what you don't see is that, Dean, man, we are fucking soul mates. Every move we have ever made towards each other led us right to this moment, and I for one am completely, blissfully happy about it."

Dean absorbs Sam's words into his being, turns them over in his own mind, feeling the weight of truth that accompanied them. It takes him several long minutes of thinking, analyzing before he accepts that Sam has spoken for both of them. He doesn't know how to respond to Sam, so he falls back into his old easy pattern.

"Blissful, Sammy?" he teases, one eyebrow cocked as he smiles into Sam's eyes, "What kind of girly bullshit word is that to use to describe true fucking love?"

Sam's smile is so bright and so blinding , Dean many never see anything again, but he doesn't mind as Sam leans into him once more, planting that beautiful smile against Dean's lips.

"Shut up, jerk," he mutters into Dean's mouth and they are lost into each other once again.


	10. Chapter 10

End of the road so far.

I don't know own the characters, but they hold fragments of my own heart.

Its Wincest, baby

The months and years have flown by, and Dean and Sam have carried on the way they had before they were together in _that way_. Hunting and killing those things that threaten the world they themselves no longer fit into. Not that they ever did.

They get older, harder, but their love for one another only grows. Some people wonder about them they are sure, but no one has ever come right out and asked them. So it remains just between them.

Soul mates racing down asphalt in the middle of Nowhere America, rushing to save people who would innately hate the Winchester boys if they ever found out the truth about them.

They are soul mates, so in love they both struggle to maintain a normal façade for outsiders. Alone, they live in a private bubble of complete and utter happiness, approval, love and adoration. They spend most of their time alone, and happier for it.

Years creep by and the passage of time is marked in small ways. The scar Sam now has on his chin. Dean is missing a pinkie finger thanks to a nearly lost battle to a Wendigo. Sam's back cracks more when he walks, and Dean blew out his knee chasing after a vampire outside of Kentucky. They tend to each other's never ending cuts and wounds like only lovers would. Attentively, thoroughly, lovingly.

Bobby Singer passes away, and has left his house to Sam and Dean. After several late night, long conversations, hands and feet entwined, Sam and Dean come to a joint decision that it might be the end of the hunt for them. They need some time for themselves. Normal, easy time.

So they move into Bobby's, closest thing they have ever had to call home. They share the master bedroom and have no feelings of weird about it. They take over Bobby's auto business and the endless supply of phone calls from other hunters that Bobby always fielded expertly. They don't participate in hunts anymore, and neither of them misses it much. They have each other, and in the end, that is all that ever really mattered.

Sorry if you find this ending a bit cheesy, but for me, I always want a happy ending for Dean and Sam. They are special and they deserved happiness waiting for them at the end of their long path.

I don't know if I will write any more of these stories, but I admit to loving this one. Not because I wrote it, but because this is what I wanted for them. I got to choose their paths for them, placing them gently onto the one I picked out. I can only hope I did the Winchesters justice in my storytelling.

Reviews are very welcome, don't bitch too much about spelling errors or grammar mistakes, because I edit quickly and if they show up in the final draft, I can see them myself. And yes, they piss me off. I just don't know how to edit an uploaded chapter yet.


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